


don't tell me how to live my life okay

by 777335



Series: yuri can't even with otabek sometimes [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, One Shot, Swearing, bros, my cute lil best friends, my sweet sons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 11:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10875798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/777335/pseuds/777335
Summary: “Okay, don’t freak out, Be--” Yuri decides to start off, given Otabek’s proclivity to internal emotional turmoil, “—okay you’re definitely already doing that.”  Otabek doesn’t react; his mouth is hanging open slightly, but no other expression crosses his face.  “Yo, Beka.”  Yuri snaps his fingers at the screen.  “Oh, for fucks sake, Beka.” He huffs, and then pokes his laptop camera, “Is facetime frozen.”  He monotones, sticking out his tongue, scrunching up his features, “Can you see me, am I paused, Beka?”“Yura?”  Otabek asks, clearing his throat.“Uhhhhhhh, yeah, dickwad.  Who else?”  Yuri tries not to fidget, self-conscious.





	don't tell me how to live my life okay

**Author's Note:**

> okay honestly i know this series is that yuri can't even with otabek sometimes, but i also feel like otabek can't even with yuri sometimes. and i saw [this picture](http://www.menshairstyleguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/mens-undercut-style-12.jpg) and just totally imagined yuri cutting his hair basically like that out of the blue one day, like waiting until his hair got really long and then just 'bam bitch, don't tell me how to live my life'.
> 
> i also assume yuri basically responds to 'have a good day' with 'don't tell me what to do', and that if he can't respond to certain situations with violence and swearing, which he doesn't like to do with beka, he's a master of deflection.

“Okay, don’t freak out, Be--” Yuri decides to start off, given Otabek’s proclivity to internal emotional turmoil, “—okay you’re definitely already doing that.”  Otabek doesn’t react; his mouth is hanging open slightly, but no other expression crosses his face.  “Yo, Beka.”  Yuri snaps his fingers at the screen.  “Oh, for _fucks sake,_ Beka.” He huffs, and then pokes his laptop camera, “Is facetime frozen.”  He monotones, sticking out his tongue, scrunching up his features, “Can you see me, am I paused, Beka?”

“Yura?”  Otabek asks, clearing his throat. 

“Uhhhhhhh, yeah, dickwad.  Who else?”  Yuri tries not to fidget, self-conscious. 

Otabek narrows his eyes, which should be helpful because Yuri wants to know what Otabek thinks, but it’s also really unhelpful, because it’s not really a positive look.  There’s the possibility Otabek is debating the nicest way to say Yuri looks terrible, which, _fuck_.    

Frustrated and worried, Yuri lifts up his hands to pull his hair over one shoulder so that he can play with it and--

_Oh right._

“It’s not even that short.”  Yuri huffs.  He pretends he lifted his hands to scratch his neck and feels a blush chase across his cheeks at how obvious of a cover that is.  “Someone told me I looked like Victor used to, should do one of his old routines for an expo, and that just pissed me right the fuck off, so I went and chopped it.”  His hair swings by the top of his ears when he ruffles it, short, buzzed on the sides, a slightly adjusted undercut.  “But oh my god, it was great, Lilia hasn’t stopped doing that tight angry high pitched voice and keeps calling me by my full name; Yakov started screaming and then stopped in the middle of a word and looked, like, so _defeated_ and just went 'Why Yura, why do you do this to me' _._ Georgi was there to help Mila with her costuming ideas, and they both might still be going _oh my god oh my god oh my GOD._ It was the best.”  Yuri hums appreciatively, remembering the rest of the panic that had occurred at the rink when he showed up. 

“What did Victor and Yuuri say?”  Otabek asks.

“Uhhhh, who gives a shit?”  Yuri responds, repositioning himself and placing the computer on his desk, facing his bed.  “Victor said it was terribly wicked of me to do without telling, but that I looked amazing and was going to wow everyone.  Yuuri told me I looked wonderful.  Apparently, I look like a different person but also not at all like a different person and it’s brilliant.”  He sighs.  “I hate them.”  He adds fondly, feeling like he should for propriety and consistency’s sake. 

“You look good.”  Otabek says.  “Why did you do it?  Not the Victor thing because I know that’s not really it.”

“Yeah, see, it took like five minutes for you to get there so, honestly, I don’t feel like you think I look good.  And good is, like, not a word I’m into.  Good is mediocre.  I don’t like mediocre.  Plus, you’re asking why so, yeah, I’m just not that pumped about this reaction.”  Yuri responds in one extended and punctuated breath, his legs settling in a butterfly stretch.  He presses his knees to the bed easily and folds himself over so that he doesn’t have to look at Otabek.  Otabek must think his hair looks terrible.  _Fuck, maybe it does look terrible._ Yuri grabs one ankle and brings his foot up to his face as he sits up.  “Look, I started yoga.”  He hooks the ankle behind his head, easier now without his hair in the way to get pulled.  “Beka, look at what I can do.”

“Yura, you could do that already.”  Otabek points out.  “Stop deflecting, that’s not what I meant.”

“Beka, look.”  Yuri puts his other foot behind his head too, for emphasis.  “Look, Beka, see.”

“How are you going to use that in ice skating.”  Beka asks dryly, as the mattress gives way to the unsteady position and Yuri tumbles backward, unlocking his legs as quickly as he can with a shriek.  He plants his feet on the bed, so all Otabek can see is his shins.

“Dunno.”  He hums, staring at the ceiling.

“Did you really start yoga.” 

“Nah,” Yuri shifts, moving his legs just slightly, to glance at Otabek and then puts them back.  “Well kinda, I got bored and, like, have you been on youtube, it’s cats and yoga and sometimes cats doing yoga or yoga with cats, look.”  He snatches Potya off the bed, and pushes the computer more to the side so it gets a wide view of the floor, stepping out to the center where Otabek can see all of him properly.  “Look.”

He goes easy into a backbend reaching behind him with one hand, balancing Potya on his stomach with the other until it’s no longer necessary and the stretch of his abs is a little seat for his cat. 

“Look.”  He says triumphantly, from upside down, craning his head to try and see if Otabek can see well.   Potya meows on Yuri’s stomach and curls up into a little ball.   “See!”  Yuri crows. 

There is a pause. 

“Yura.”  Otabek says.

“Hmm?”  Yuri asks, reaching one hand back up to hold Potya to his stomach and pushing off of the ground with the other.  Potya uses him a springboard and jumps before Yuri even gets halfway to standing.  Out of habit, Yuri's hands go up to push his hair out of his eyes and— _oh right._ His hands flutter in the air again, useless with no hair to tuck behind his ears, and he panics, kicks his leg back into position for a biellmann, catches his ankle over his head and extends, tilting his head back so he doesn’t have to look at Otabek.  

“Yuri.”  Otabek says. 

_Oooo, no nickname._ Yuri thinks, letting up a little on the back-leg extension and rising up on his front foot in a precarious relevé.

“Present.”  He responds snidely, without looking at the computer.  He’s a little off balance, the carpet is not right for this, but he makes it work.

“Yuri Plisetsky, I swear to _god.”_ Otabek says, and Yuri relents, drops the leg, stares at the camera deadpan. 

“What.”

“C’mere.”  Otabek says. 

Yuri rolls his eyes, _it’s fucking facetime, c’mere where?_  

He shuffles toward the computer and tosses himself in his desk chair, hitting the laptop with a hand so it angles better, looking off into space, hazarding quick glances at Otabek.

“Your hair, if you remember, went down past your shoulders to like halfway down your chest.  It was _long-long._ You didn’t tell me you’d cut it, Yura.  You literally just sent me a text that just said ‘facetime bitchhhhhhh’.  I was surprised, of course it took me a second.  You look totally different.  And you wanted me to be thrown, don't lie, you love doing that.  I really do like it though.  You look awesome.”  Otabek has his serious and honest eyes on, which are _unfair_ because they always make Yuri realize that oh, Beka is a friend, like a real friend, and that he, like, actually _cares_ about Yuri.

Yuri scrunches his nose and looks away again, smiling and pretending he’s not. 

“Can see your eyes better which is good for competitions and stuff.”  Otabek adds.  “You have fantastic eyes, Yura; they’re expressive.”

“Eyes of a soldier.”  Yuri sniffs.

“Please let me live that down, it’s been over two years.”  Otabek sounds distraught.

“Never.” Yuri shrieks, and bounces for the bed, grabbing the computer as he does.  “Also, I’ve told you a million times, I liked it.  Everyone always called me _ethereal_ and _exquisite_ and shit; it was nice to have someone, I dunno, see me the way I felt like I was.”  He doesn’t pause because every time he lets Otabek respond to something like that, to genuine emotion from Yuri, Yuri pretty much almost cries because Otabek starts saying all these really nice things and _means them._ Not to mention stuff like _I really like you, Yura_ and _I’m glad were friends,_ and Yuri finds himself not only agreeing but also, irritatingly, responding in kind _._ Otabek seriously brings out the worst in him.  “You really like it?”  He asks, still a little nervous, clicking at Potya who jumps onto his lap and reaches out to paw at the screen, trying to get to Otabek. 

“You look amazing.”  Otabek affirms.  “It must be so weird though?  It was so long.”  

“Yeah,” Yuri waves his hands around his head, “everything feels so light and my neck is cold and my ears are too, and I keep going to brush it back or run my hands through it and there’s nothing there, nothing gets stuck on my piercing, nothing to put in a dramatic upsweep to annoy Mila by having better hair than her, nothing to fiddle with when I’m bored.  I have all these Instagram posts of cool braids to try saved that I can’t use right now?  So fucking weird.”

“You look sick as fuck.”  Otabek says, and Yuri is ninety percent sure that Otabek is saying that mainly because he knows it irritates Yuri when he talks like an Instagram comment. 

“Don’t.” Yuri warns.

“I’m crying, Yura, I’m actually crying because of how good you look”  Otabek adds. 

“I’ll beat you up.”

“You're literally goals, Yura.”

Yuri apathetically gives the camera the middle finger.

“Hella tight?” 

“Oh my _god,_ what decade are you from?  You’re so _old_.”  Yuri crows, delighted.  “No, you’re not old.”  He amends, at Otabek’s faux-hurt pout.  “Victor is old though, so old.” 

“He’s not even here to defend himself.”  Otabek responds, amused.  “Anyway, you really do look amazing, it suits you.” 

Otabek smiles that genuine smile that Yuri knows is real, and makes him feel light and happy from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

“Thanks.”  He says shyly.  “Probably gonna dye it eventually, two-tone that shit.  Post it to Instagram tonight, before I get scooped by, like, the triplets somehow.  Post-shower selfie or something, telling people _look at this_ , only half in the frame, Potya doing something cute in the background?  Lovingly traumatize the angels.”

“Of course.”  Otabek grins.  “There is nothing you like more than being a maelstrom and watching people scatter, simultaneously enraptured and terrified.”

Yuri beams at the over dramatic description; genuinely he would only allow Otabek to say something like that.  He also makes a mental note to consider ‘maelstrom’ as his theme for this upcoming season.

“ _Duh._ ” He responds.

“You should just go for broke too and get your tongue pierced or something.  Or a nose ring and connect it to your cartilage piercing with chains. No, tongue would be more dramatic.”  Otabek muses, tilting his head.

“Can you _imagine_!”  Yuri shrieks, delighted, “Oh my god, Beka, can you _imagine.”_

“I actually really regret saying that now.  Please put me on record as really regretting saying that.  Yura, no, don’t-- stop researching it.  Fuck. Put your phone down.  Yura.  Whatever you do, it is not my fault.”

“Whatever.”  Yuri waves his hand, already deep into google search on, like, _how actually painful is it to get your tongue pierced_.  “Also, I still plan to get a tattoo, which is directly your bad influence so?”  He adds, looking up from his phone, raising an eyebrow pointedly.

“I’m a good influence.”  Otabek puts his head in his hands. “I _am_.”  He says in response to Yuri’s snort.  “I’m a great influence.  I didn’t even let you go to clubs with me when you were underage; I don’t deserve this.”

“You sneak me drinks at galas.”  Yuri points out.

Otabek ignores him.  “Also, so I had that sponsorship meeting I was telling you about, right?  And the upscale restaurant they took me to had fluorescent lighting.  I almost walked out.  I can put up with a lot, with people who think they’re better than me and say rude things; with seeing people pushing drugs during my sets at clubs which I hate, like just not on the dance floor please; with bad fashion choices by friends who wear crocs  _out,_ not just like pre-sports, but _out_ out.  But Yura.  Fluorescent  lighting?”

“Yeah, fair.”  Yuri considers if he should click this link titled: _my horrible tongue piercing experience_. Definitely yes.“How did the meeting go?”  He flicks his eyes up to Otabek, who shakes his head lightly- Otabek for ‘ _I would like to talk about it later’_.  Yuri nods.     

“Fluorescent !”  Otabek reiterates, slams a hand on his bed.  “Also, I still think we should get like kinda matching tattoos, like related ones.  Not obvious ones.”

“Yeah, or like anti-fluorescent lighting tattoos?”  Yuri asks, holding up the phone to the camera.  “Look at this-- it got infected.” 

Otabek blanches.  “I preferred cat yoga, if you’re going to make me to look at things.  And seriously, like something small and simple."  

“Mmm,” Yuri hums, pleased with the idea, rolling it over in his mind again, “We should though, you can wind it into the piece you have already and I can make it, like, flow into what I'm gonna get?  Let’s plot more ideas when you get to Saint Petersburg next week, I have some stuff I want to show you anyway.  Also, no one looks good in fluorescent lighting, why would they do that?  The whole restaurant was?”

“Okay, I get in Thursday at 11AM now, by the way.  Flight got switched.   And yeah, the whole place, swear to god. Although, you would look good in it, Yura.  You look good in all lighting.”

“Right, well, on Thursday at 11:01 AM I’m punching you for that.” Yuri shoots him an irritated look.  “Don’t say shit that’s just factually wrong; literally _no one_ looks good in fluorescent lighting.”

“You do though." Otabek mutters. "Also, it just seems rude to do that right before a training camp, like I'm flying out there for this.”  Otabek stretches as he speaks, head disappearing from the frame.  “I’m assuming you’re punching me in the face so like.”

“Fine, I’ll hold off.  First time I see you once the season starts, then.”

“Post-competition, please.  Don’t want to be in the center of the podium with a black eye.”

“Hah, _center of the podium,_ whatever.”  Yuri snipes, tossing his phone to the side; it’s, like, complicated and he’s bored already and there are a lot of veins in your tongue, and he’s just going to look at all of that later.  “I’ve got some good shit for next season, gonna destroy everyone, already decided, kissed it up to God, Altin.”

“Mmm.”  Otabek says dryly.  “Your theme?”

“‘My friend, Otabek Altin, who is a very bad influence on me and responsible for all of my bad decisions’” 

“Okay, untrue.”  Otabek responds caustically. “Also, wow, that’s a mouthful.”  

Yuri considers because, like, that’s low-hanging fruit, right?  And he’s matured and shit. Nah, fuck it, that's too good to pass up.  

“That’s what she said last night!”  Yuri screeches. “ _Nice.”_   He holds his hand out for a fist bump via camera. 

“No.”  Otabek responds grimly, putting his face in his hands.  "No."

“Beka _.  Nice._   C’mon.  Beka.  Hey.  Otabek.  Otabek Altin.  Hey.  Beka.”

Otabek hangs up on him, much to Yuri’s delight.  

He doesn’t bother moving, just pets Potya while he waits and hums a little song, picking up his phone again to idly scroll through his folder of saved potential tattoo reference pictures.  Otabek always calls him back.  The longest Otabek had ever lasted was a minute before he called Yuri back to be like _and another thing Yura--_

His computer dings a few seconds later:   _Beka ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ would like facetime_

Yuri grins and picks up.  


End file.
